Wilkinson winked at Morehead.
"Why, girlie," he exclaimed, "Ilingsworth's stolen millions will take care of her!"
Leslie brightened up.
"To be sure," she answered. "I—I never thought of that. I'd forgotten all about the fact that he had money still."
"He reeks with money," added Morehead, returning Wilkinson's wink. "And now, for the machine."
Twenty minutes later Wilkinson stalked into the presence of his wife and Beekman. It was late afternoon, and Beekman was to dine with them that night. Wilkinson bowed ostentatiously to Mrs. Wilkinson, and commented:
"Overpowered, my dear, absolutely overpowered by your attentions to me while I was in the Tombs. I actually felt like a bachelor again."
"How could any man expect a lady to go there?" she asked, glaring at Beekman, and evidently expecting him to come to her aid, but as no comment was forthcoming from that gentleman, she concluded her remark by saying: "Not for the best man alive would I trail down into that dirty, dingy place."
Wilkinson groaned with disgust.
"Nevertheless, there were some women," he reminded her, "who came there, clad in rags, and stood, stood, stood on their tired feet all day long, outside the cells of the men they loved. They were wives, mostly wives, too, for I heard what they had to say...." He, too, appealed to Beekman. "It's worth while, Beekman," he wound up, a trifle sadly, "to be loved for yourself alone, and not for your money, isn't it?"